Brothers in Arms
by atheneglaukopis
Summary: Boromir and Faramir from the fall of Osgiliath to the departure for Imladris. Faramir, as can be expected, is none too pleased that his quest has been taken over. Brotherly love and angst abound.


Disclaimer: All characters, situations, locations, premises, etc. were created by Tolkien, not me, and they certainly don't belong to me. 

Brothers in Arms

They had fought for—Boromir realized that he had lost all count of the hours. They had fought. And now, every minute that they held on was dearly bought. _Too dearly bought_—the words rang through his head yet again, and this time he did not dismiss them out of hand as quickly as before. A few men holding on desperately, fighting with the taste of defeat in their mouths—and they died where they stood.

Time had lost all meaning for him, and his field of vision had contracted to include his company and the enemies directly in front of him. Any more and he might take in the vast numbers of men and Orcs flanking them, might remember that unseen _thing_ that seemed to sap his men of their strength and lend it to his foes. He swung his sword, slaying mindlessly, for to think was to panic, screamed "Gondor!" for as long as there was breath in his lungs, and reassured his men that he fought with them. The stench of fear was far worse than the stench of death.

But that was a luxury no longer permitted to the Captain. He had to make command decisions, had to choose whether to save the bridge or his men.

__

We cannot hold the bridge. They will but cross it into Gondor when they have slain us.

His gaze scanned the company. Perhaps thirty-five yet on their feet, many severely wounded and fighting only because they refused to notice. Thirty-five, out of that glorious fighting force he had led East.

There was no time for weakness. There was less time for hesitation.

"Cast down the bridge and swim who can!" he shouted. "Cast down the bridge! We will live to fight another day! Cast down the bridge! Swim!"

The men nearest the bank turned to obey his orders; the others formed a living shield around them.

The first sounds of destruction to the symbol that Gondor had held even east of the River. The enemy cried in triumph, pressed ever closer. Boromir stiffened himself. 

"I am with you, men! Hold the line!" The fell shrieking followed the advance of the army. "Steady! Destroy the bridge! Destroy it!"

Men fell. Swords kept the enemy at bay, even now. Every second was agony. They must hold until the bridge was gone.

Boromir nearly screamed with the fear and impatience, nearly collapsed with the effort it took his battered body to swing that sword. Captains of the Guard did not break down in battle.

Men fell. The bridge was on the verge of destruction. Faramir took a crushing blow to his midsection, crumpled around it.

Boromir's heart stopped. He leapt out of formation, blocking the incoming axe with his sword and with his sword arm when that was not enough. Faramir straightened in that split second and sent a head flying. Ever so momentarily off his guard and off balance, Boromir felt a sword crash into his side, jarring him but not cutting through the armor.

The bridge of Osgiliath gave way. For a brief second brothers clasped hands, then plunged into the water together.

Shouting "Gondor shall return!" Boromir counted the men as best he could by the light of the moon. Perhaps fifteen. Not all would reach the other side.

Arrows flashed into the water. Men fell. The pain in Boromir's arm as he tried to swim, sword in hand, threatened to cut out all else. He was not aware as his head was lowering until he took that first breath of water, and then thrashed wildly until he was coughing water out and sucking air in.

Others were having an even harder time of it. Dying men, even doughty Rangers of Númenorean blood, simply cannot swim a strong river in full armor. Boromir saw them going under as their hearts gave out at last, watched the bodies of his soldiers being swept downstream. He wanted to shout a warning to them, not to expend so much energy in fighting the current, tell them that it was not necessary to swim a straight line—but his lungs had not recovered from the water and he had no breath to spare. Already he was dizzy, his vision blurring.

His left hand brushed against something solid. Solid! Of its own accord it moved up and dug fingers into the bank. His body was tugged downstream and he found it easier to roll himself lengthwise up to safety.

But a leader had no time to rest on the bank, he must drag himself to his feet. Two men seemed also to have made the crossing. Two. Something was wrong. His brain wouldn't function, his body threatened to go into shock. His lips moved. His lungs would not allow air to accompany the movement. Some deep force, deeper than desperation, forced out one word.

"Faramir?"

In all this time, he had not lost his head. Under the impulse to flee that dark thing heedlessly, he had kept his men together, falling ever back but retrieving even those who had fled and finding a new spot to fight from, pulling his troops back together when ranks were hopelessly broken. In all this time he had thought strategy, tactics, the mechanics of swordplay.

But then, in all this time, he had never known real fear.

Boromir plunged into the river. The cries of "Captain Boromir!" from the shore did not even exist for him. He had no thoughts now, moving simply out of instincts.

One-armed, he swam downstream, knowing he had to move faster than the current. Dark, dark, too dark! He had to see. But the moon was high and full, and it would be enough. Losing Osgiliath was possible. Losing Faramir was not.

Some part of him knew it was not long before he recognized the struggling figure—one he would know anywhere, under any circumstances—but nevertheless it was an eternity. His left arm he flung over Faramir, pulling him close. Not even in pain now, Boromir was utterly numb, but at least his body obeyed his will. He had no strength left, only stubbornness and a brother he loved.

Faramir's head drooped. Boromir had lost too many men to that head drooping tonight. He himself had one functional arm left, now supporting the other man, and one non-functional arm that would nevertheless have to pull them to the shore. A deep gulp of air, and he lowered his own head and used it to raise Faramir's, now swimming partly beneath him.

Then somehow, with his legs, he maneuvered them close enough to the west bank that his damaged right arm was able to thrust his sword—still clenched in a death grip—into the bank and stop their southward motion. He never quite knew how he got them out of the river but he did, and even then he was not finished, for he found he had to unstrap some of Faramir's armor plating so that he could press on his stomach to force him to release the water.

Shaking hard, he pulled a barely conscious Faramir onto his lap, and did not relax until he felt his brother's arms reach around him. Then he laughed, and began to rock back and forth, ignoring the resulting pain. Faramir laughed too—or was he crying? Boromir found he could not tell, and that he was no long sure even of himself.

So they clung for many minutes until at last their breathing calmed. The others would be searching for him, but for now he could not quite bring himself to let go. If too often they had found they only had each other, at the least they always had each other.

"My foolhardy brother," were Faramir's first words, coming from a head resting on the aforesaid brother's shoulder. Embracing was difficult in armor but not impossible, as the aftermath of many a battle had shown. "That's the second time in scarce five minutes that you've saved my life."

"Aye." Boromir's relief was too great for words, expressed only in the lines of his body as he sat slumped against a tree. "Well, you've done the same for me often enough."

"I suppose. And while I would never presume to find fault with your style, it might have been more sensible had you run along the bank until you found me, rather than wasting so much strength swimming with a broken arm."

"You're the thinking one, little brother, I only knew I wasn't going home without you." He ran his fingers through Faramir's hair, cringing at the sticky feel. Boromir's voice grew stern. "Did you take a blow to your head as well?"

"Mmm? Yes, I believe so. My memories are rather blurred."

"Your helm didn't block it?"

"I think it must have been dented." Faramir straightened, and Boromir's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "You make a superb protective elder brother. Now cease fussing."

Boromir managed a small smile. Now that some of the shock had worn off he was feeling every wound. "Can you walk, then?"

"I think so. You?"

He paused. "I think so."

Like two feeble old men they helped one another to their feet, Boromir going to some effort to retrieve and sheathe his sword. His right arm was now truly useless, and though he tried to be the support for his brother as they limped along, he was occasionally forced to lean on him as one or more of his injured parts betrayed him.

"How many survived to reach the western shore?"

"I saw only two." He felt Faramir flinch. "Perhaps more have come since I left to find you."

Two. Only two. The four men searched up and down the riverbank, but there were no more. Across the Anduin they could hear the triumph of the Orcs and the Haradrim, despoiling the dead. Worse were the sounds of the torture of the living, and it sickened them. Physically sickened them, and as they made their slow way north to Minas Tirith, none found any shame in pausing while gripped with uncontrollable retching.

"There was nothing more you could have done," Faramir murmured into the heaviness of the night, but Boromir's face remained stony. His army had been massacred. It was not forgivable.

On they marched, each caught in his own nightmare, reliving the battle, until at last Boromir, sensing the growing weakness and despair, his own not least, called a halt. "We will rest here for the night, and reach the White City tomorrow. We are weary and it will do no good to kill ourselves now through overexertion. Sleep as best you may, I will take first watch."

The other two settled on the other side of the fire—started in June to counteract as much the unnatural chill that had emanated from that shadow as the natural effects of shock—leaving the brothers to ease themselves to the ground beside each other. One look into Faramir's eyes told Boromir that he would not be the only one for whom sleep would not come soon.

As they tended to one another's wounds he finally asked, "Have you any idea what that—_thing_—was?"

"I have not."

He sighed, having come to expect Faramir to have all the answers at need. "Nothing you have come across in all your reading?"

"If so, I did not recognize it. And you have read as much concerning military matters and the enemy as I—ai!—ahhhhhh." His hands flew up to hover near Boromir's but with a visible effort he restrained them from interfering.

Heart wrenching, he kept his pull steady. "I know it hurts, Faramir, but I must bind it strongly. You have a broken rib and torn muscles and I know not what else. I shall be much happier when I see you in the Houses of Healing. Hold this, if you would, I have but one hand to work with."

"I know. I shall bind yours next."

Boromir nodded. "You are the one who knows all the old legends, though," he continued.

"If I had seen it myself, perhaps—but I am as glad I did not."

"And I. A rider in black, they said. But no rider in black should have stricken so much fear into the hearts of our men. These are soldiers of Gondor, they do not simply panic! And yet I cannot blame them, I came so near myself. I tell you, my brother, that only my command, the men in my care, kept me from fleeing with the others."

Faramir only nodded mutely.

They passed an uneasy night, Boromir's hand resting lightly on his brother's hair. It was long before he slept, and then he tossed fitfully, barely soothed by Boromir's whispers. This had been far easier when Faramir was a child. Comforting the nightmares of a five-year old brought on by a lightning storm was one thing, the nightmares of a fellow soldier another.

For some time Faramir did lie still and Boromir began to hope that he would sleep soundly, allowing him to follow suit, but a rapt look soon crossed his face and he started awake out of his sleep. He winced only momentarily at the strain on his abdominal muscles before that look Boromir knew only too well settled in his eyes.

Boromir let out a long, slow breath of air as his brother turned to gaze into the West. He waited a few minutes, but never patient at the best of times, asked, "You dreamed true, didn't you?"

No answer. Faramir was looking more and more abstracted.

Almost choking on his impatience and weariness, he steeled himself to wait. If there was one thing he knew, it was not to interrupt.

At last Faramir stirred himself. "I could not say. I know only that I have dreamed." Mustering something that approached a smile, he turned to face his brother. "You should rest, I'll keep watch."

He knew that if he only had the strength he could coax the details out of Faramir, and more than simply wanting to know, he wanted to provide moral support, but he had not the concentration.

Stretching himself out on the ground, careful of his right arm, he did ask once, without expecting an answer, "What did you dream?"

Faramir's voice flowed over him, warmth almost concealing the tenseness. "Not yet. Besides, you're weary enough to sleep without argument. For once."

"Not 'for once'," he grumbled, falling into sleep almost immediately.

He awoke the next morning to find Faramir still on guard, pale and drawn. During the march, he stumbled more and more often, and Boromir could not tell whether it was from pain, his mind wandering somewhere in Númenor, or a combination of the two. All his attempts at concern were brushed away, and finally he pitched his voice low but firm, "What did you dream?"

"Not yet, Boromir." 

"Minas Tirith?" There were times Faramir needed to be pushed rather than coaxed, and Boromir had become quite good where his brother was concerned.

"I need some time."

"You will tell me?"

"I will. You have my word."

"Very well. I'll not press you now."

Both nodded, informally sealing the agreement. Boromir and Faramir had certain understandings, and this was a variation on a conversation they had had any number of times.

He allowed them a rest break before they pushed on to make the city within the next march. After catching his breath, Faramir leaned over to speak softly. "There were wraiths that served the Enemy once. I had thought they were destroyed, and I did not know they took the form of riders, but I do believe there may have been mention of the terror they induced."

Boromir nearly smiled, with relief and amusement. Sometimes Faramir was so reliable, his memory as good as a library. "Thank you. I had much rather we had fought this before."

He raised a cautionary hand. "I said I could not say for sure. I will search through the records when I return."

"Understood."

*

Boromir fought to keep a military stance as he related the events of the campaign to the Steward. Denethor's face remained unmoving at the news of the defeat, and his judgment of Boromir's decision to destroy the bridge unknown.

When he had finished and stood in silence at attention, Denethor regarded him at length. Visions of drowning men flashed insistently through his brain. His shoulders tried to slump. He had failed.

"You have suffered very few defeats, all of them minor." Boromir's mind snapped back to attention. "Certainly there has never before been panic among our soldiers. I therefore intend to take this new threat seriously. If you did not win that battle then no one could have. Have your wounds tended to and then begin reconnaissance efforts. Additionally carry out or have someone carry out research into these creatures. There were wraiths in the Second Age."

Boromir nodded briskly. "Faramir said the same."

"Consult with him, then, he seems to read enough." There was a tinge of impatience in his voice before he softened a whit. "Now look to your wounds."

Boromir bowed and departed, concealing his emotions. _You seem to read enough yourself, Father, and you're dreadfully unfair to Faramir. I know you disapprove of his more frivolous reading, but his familiarity with the wraiths is no different from your own._

But a battle with Denethor on this subject was a lost battle before it began, and Boromir had had enough of lost battles.

Faramir was nowhere to be found in the Houses of Healing, so Boromir concealed all but the worst of his wounds from the healers and endured the swiftest possible treatment before rushing off to the archives.

Sure enough, Faramir was intent over a stack of papers, scribbling down notes. His face was flushed and drawn with pain but he worked with feverish urgency, either not noticing or ignoring Boromir as he came over to stand beside his brother.

"Faramir," he asked, very gently, "what is it that is of such importance? The matter of the wraiths can wait a few hours."

"I know," he mumbled distractedly, not looking up. "It's not that."

"Than what is it? Your dream?"

"Mmhmm. You're blocking the torchlight."

Obligingly Boromir moved, yielding on the skirmishes to win the battle. "I take it then that it was not the usual dreams of Númenor?"

"Mmm."

"None of this will matter if you collapse."

"It matters. And I won't."

Boromir settled in, calmly spreading his feet a bit so as to be more comfortable. If he had but one character trait, it was stubbornness. As single-minded as Faramir could be, even he was no match, and Boromir was determined to have at least one of two things from him.

"You could share this pressing matter with me. Or I could have you removed to the Houses of Healing," he offered pleasantly. "The choice is yours; I will be content either way."

Dead silence, save for the rustle of parchment and the scratch of a quill.

"If you do not share it with me, how shall I be able to know whether it warrants this self-neglect?"

"You could trust me." His voice was tight, and in response Boromir rested an affectionate hand on his shoulder.

"I trust you as I trust no one else, Brother, including to place everything before yourself. At times I simply feel the need to guard you against that."

"Some things, such as Gondor, do and should have priority."

"If it involves the safety of Gondor, should I not know of it?"

"I have promised to tell you, and I shall, soon. Can you not give me some time?"

He moved his hand to Faramir's warm, damp brow. "Not while you have a fever grave enough to worry me."

"I would have something concrete as support first and if you let me be I will find it all the sooner."

"Oh, little brother. I will give your words credence even if you have naught but a dream and an intuition to base them on. I have never mocked your dreams or dismissed them out of hand."

__

Unlike Father, he did not add,_ who scorns them as impractical. Which is all the more strange since he, not I, is the one who shares that gift. But Father trusts only his own dreams._

Still he had not looked up. "That is not entirely precise."

Boromir's mouth, which had opened to say something, closed again. That had been a mistake. Even if he did not understand of what use a dream of the deluge of Númenor, an event long past, could be, he should never have said so to Faramir. "Then I am sorry. But you know that if it concerns the weal of Gondor, you have my ear."

At last Faramir almost threw down his pen and turned toward his brother. "Nay, it is I who am sorry. I meant not to be ungracious. Your support has always been everything to me."

"Of course you did not," he agreed, slipping his good arm around Faramir and letting him bury his face against his neck. "You are suffering from battle wounds, a fever, and too much work.

"And grief," he added. That much at least he shared himself. Physical wounds were minimal beside helpless raging at fate and gnawing self-doubt. "Get thee1 to the Houses of Healing. Even I've had my wounds tended."

"Even you?" he murmured. "Then of a surety it is past time for me. You'll be here, researching the wraiths?"

"Yes." As much as his own inclination might have been to accompany his brother, duty called, and Faramir would rightly resent being treated as a child.

"Very well." Faramir straightened and began to limp toward the door. "Should you find any references to Imladris, the death of Isildur, or Halflings, please make a note of them for me."

"Imladris, the death of Isildur, Halflings," he repeated. "I look forward to hearing of this dream."

*

Boromir lowered himself to the pile of skins he kept as a bed in his tent. Scarcely a week later he was back on the field. He rode up and down the west shores of the Anduin, checking their defenses and making plans. Faramir had turned out to be suffering from internal bleeding, so he had remained in the White Tower, handling paperwork while researching his dream and the problem of the fell creatures. He would have welcomed his brother's presence, he who always listened so well and often gave good advice, but another part of him was relieved to know Faramir was safe in Minas Tirith.

No doubt dreaming that riddle again. Faramir said it had come to him four times since the night Boromir had watched it, six times in all.

Well, at least he himself should sleep well, exhausted and saddle-sore. Even all his anxieties could not plague him tonight.

Boromir fell into a deep, comforting slumber. He was back home, in the Tower of Ecthelion, safe, where he could stand as a bulwark and protect his people. In the dream he ascended to the highest balcony and stood there facing east, towering over the Land of Shadow. A strong wind blew, pulling all the fluttering banners of Gondor into proud display, but it drew with it a heavy dark cloud from the East that covered all the pale blue sky, blocking the sunrise.

His hand went to his sword, prepared to use it to brush back the clouds, but a sound as though the trumpets of war rang out from the West, answering the thunder from the East. He turned and found he was standing no longer on the balcony, but the very summit of the Tower.

Silence fell, and then he heard a voice crying from the distance where the light yet lingered.

__

Seek for the Sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken,

Stronger than Morgul spells.

There shall be shown a token,

That Doom is near at hand,

For Isildur's Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.

Boromir jerked out of his sleep, the words pounding in his brain. A deep compulsion to seek Imladris had gripped him, and he knew he would not sleep tonight, if ever before this command had been fulfilled.

He rose to his feet, still fully dressed. _And I cannot go to Minas Tirith!_

Calling for a messenger to be sent, Boromir tried to compose a message that Faramir and none other would understand.

"Ride to my brother in the city and tell him…tell him I send as a gift the seventh dream. He will understand. And tell him I will return as soon as I may."

*

Under the urgency of the dream, Boromir drove himself harder than ever over the next three days. There was no further word of the dark rider, but Boromir did not therefore allow himself to wax optimistic. Faramir had found allusions to the difficulty of dark creatures with the crossing of running water. No doubt it lurked just across the Anduin.

But Orcs and men had no such trouble, and in three days Boromir fought as many skirmishes. By fortifying defenses on the west bank and personally trying to be everywhere at once he managed to achieve something of a standoff, and though the tension in the army grow, morale stopped plummeting and at last Boromir decided it was safe to return to Minas Tirith.

Faramir was waiting just outside the Great Hall when Boromir finished his official report to the Steward and took his leave. "Well, how goes it, Brother? Recovering well from your wounds, I hope. Shall we converse in my room?"

"Yes, let us."

In Boromir's chamber, where they were certain not to be disturbed, they sat cross-legged on the bed.

"You were sent the same dream?"

"I was. It was most compelling. I begin to understand why you devote so much time to the search in the archives. Have you discovered anything?"

"Nothing of importance." Faramir slumped in the corner, and Boromir tossed him a pillow, following suit in leaning back against the headboard. "There are so many records, it is the task of a lifetime. And yet so many records lost as well: where I am sure we once had one that would have laid it out neatly for us, now we must piece together many hints and risk falling far short of the mark. And the hints are too few…I am uncertain what path to follow now."

"Perhaps consult with those whose lifetimes exceed ours?"

"Oh, I have spoken with other scholars, particularly the elders of the city, for any knowledge of where Imladris lies. For that would seem to be the crux of the dream, to seek for Imladris. But they knew nothing, or they differed greatly in their beliefs."

"But you did not speak to our father."

Faramir's eyes closed, a strained look crossed his face. "If I speak to him of my dream, he will have me back on the field immediately. Where I will be soon regardless, and I need what little time I have. To tell him would be to have all hope of finding it lost, and we _must_ find it."

Boromir reached out to clasp his hand. "I agree with all you have said, Faramir. But if anyone is to travel to this Imladris, it will need the Steward's leave. And, it seems, to find it at all we will need his aid. We believe this dream Valar-sent, do we not?"

"I do."

"Then why else would they send me this dream, I who have never dreamed true in my life, if not so that Father may heed it? I will approach him, he will listen to me."

Faramir regarded him closely. "And leave my part out entirely?" He did not sound bitter, only tired.

"I'm sorry. But it's the easiest way to handle Father. You know I value you highly, and you will be my right hand when I am Steward."

"Where I shall pass my days providing you with information and advice, having the information gratefully received and the advice blithely disregarded. And on the subject of advice, I have a promise I wish to exact from you."

Boromir's eyes narrowed, but he was smiling. "And what might that be?"

"If that black rider should issue you a challenge…do not accept."

His eyebrows shot up. "Ah! So you believe it is the Witch-king?"

"Father and I have discussed it. No explicit connection has ever been made, at least in our records, between the wraiths at the Battle of Dagorlad and those who captured Minas Ithil from us, in large part because they were presumed to have been destroyed at Dagorlad, but I see no reason what we witnessed at Osgiliath cannot be what Eärnur faced. It was certainly a rider in black, such as the Witch-king was said to be, bore the characteristics of a wraith—allowing to be here from the Second Age—and it seemed to inflict the same terror2."

"Father said never before-" he murmured.

"Father will not see any weakness in the army, he cannot, but if you read between the lines, it's there. He looks into the coming darkness and refuses to fear, even as his despair grows. I can see the greatest battle being waged within his soul."

Boromir knew what that meant, under all the Númenorean farsightedness that Faramir was evincing. "He has been harder on you of late."

Faramir looked startled, then nodded distractedly. "I fear for him. And yet I feel that Gondor could not be in stronger hands. You are needed most greatly on the battlefield."

As usual, he had evaded the issue, which meant either that it was not all that bad and he did not wish to distract from weightier matters by complaints of his treatment, or that it was particularly bad. Boromir knew his brother well, but he lacked the clear insight of those in whom the Númenorean blood ran truest, and Faramir could conceal his mind from him if he truly wished.

__

I would shield him, but as ever I cannot confront Father directly. So he made an attempt at lightening the mood, with a playful punch at Faramir's shoulder. "And you think that I would ride off to single combat?"

Thankfully, Faramir seemed willing to go along. "All I know, dearest brother, is that when we first heard the story as children, from Father at the table one evening, your exact words were: 'I could have done it.' And never tell me you have not sought to emulate Eärnur."

Even facing this growing darkness himself, Boromir found it in him to laugh. And laugh. Faramir was right. "Then I will ask: And you think that I could not do it?"

He laughed, then grew sober. "Boromir-"

Alas, the moment of levity had passed. They were all too few in these days. "Faramir. Hear me. I will not ride to Mordor without an army. But the Witch-king took Minas Ithil in Eärnur's day. Now it seems he has taken Osgiliath. If ever he should stand within the gates of Minas Tirith, I will ride to meet him, though it be to my doom. Eärnur was a fool, but my city will not be taken while I live.

"But I do not expect that. We fight a hopeless war, it is true, but it was no less hopeless three thousand years ago."

Faramir shook his head slightly. "All the old heroes are slain," he whispered, mostly to himself.

"Then we shall make some new heroes, and seek what is to be found in Imladris. Now before I go to Father, you have not told me how your wounds fare."

"I am well; the healers say I will be ready for battle in a few days."

"And that is the best news I have heard in weeks." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "You will accompany me?"

"If you so wish," Faramir smiled.

As they walked through the halls of the Tower together, Boromir grew more and more determined to be the one to take this journey. Faramir was not up to it. And…_Seek for the Sword that was broken_. A broken sword could be reforged, and if anyone was to seek for a sword, it would be he. After all, this time the dream had come to him as well.

Denethor listened with grave interest to Boromir's recounting of his dream.

"Imladris is a distant vale, west of the Misty Mountains and far to the north, where lies the house of Lord Elrond-" Faramir's chin jerked up at that, "-master of all lore of Middle-earth."

Yes, even Boromir had heard that name.

"And you were told that we should look for his aid?"

He nodded. "I can leave in-"

"My Lord."

Denethor frowned. "Yes, Faramir?"

"I would fain take this errand upon myself. I am the younger and the less renowned on the field: I am the more easily spared."

"You are not strong enough," Boromir insisted. "I have been fighting for several days; you will not be ready to ride for days yet. It would be folly to send you on this journey, for your own sake."

Faramir's face was set. "Your sword arm is broken," he pointed out.

"I can fight left-handed, have I not shown that since Osgiliath? I am better suited for this."

"Osgiliath is a perfect example of why we need you!"

"Indeed?" His voice was rising as the memories came stabbing back. "I think you or any other would have managed to lose just as well!"

"You are the best captain we have!"

"Boromir." It was Denethor's voice, low but hard, cutting through their shouts. "You are the next heir to the Stewardship. This is not a task to be undertaken lightly, and we cannot readily spare you."

"I undertake nothing lightly, Father. But I was sent this dream from the Valar-"

Faramir flinched, and Denethor saw, but misunderstood. "Yes, it is true that you were sent the dream. You begrudge your brother, Faramir?"

Now it was Boromir's turn to flinch. He had not meant it that way at all…but he saw his opportunity and if it was all that would keep Faramir from getting himself killed…"Never before this have I dreamed true."

Nor had he seen Faramir so stricken. Boromir observed him fighting to control his shaking, not to give Denethor any more reason to think ill of him.

"My Lord Father, you said it yourself. We cannot spare him. We are not certain where Imladris lies, there is the journey to be made thither, whatever must be accomplished once there, and the return journey—and we are hard pressed by Mordor as never before. It is not that I begrudge you glory, I have never begrudged you anything!"

"I know," Boromir said quietly. "I have never thought it."

It did not go very far to alleviate Faramir's distress.

*

The debate raged for an hour, but Boromir was determined, and what had begun as the brothers united to convince the Steward had shifted into Boromir trying to maneuver their father to take his side over Faramir's. At last, despite all Denethor's reluctance, the decision was made. Boromir would set out for Imladris in two days, once he had had time to make arrangements for his absence. Officially Denethor would still have to call a council on it, but that was little more than a formality. His judgment virtually always carried the day.

With a lifetime's practice of concealing his emotions, Faramir bowed inscrutably. "My Lords." His voice was even steady, and he managed an unhurried pace as he left, which immediately changed once he was out of sight, fleeing toward the stables. Brushing the stable hands aside, he began to tack up a horse furiously, eyes stinging with unshed tears. Never had Boromir done that to him, never! Never had he used their father's blatant favoritism to his advantage, rather he would go out of his way not to, apologizing whenever he had no choice.

And now…and now—Faramir's hands fumbled and the horse shied.

"There, boy, there," he murmured, stroking the proud head.

No one could more effectively have betrayed him, and he could no longer stand it here, with both his father and his brother against him.

The stable door was flung open behind him, and he turned with anger and apprehension. He had ordered all the stable hands out, so…

*

A icy shiver ran down Boromir's back. _My Lords_. He had put that in the plural. But he was gone before Boromir could reach a hand out to him, and it was a troubled Denethor he had to face. 

"It is not necessary that you be the one to go. It could be interpreted as a message to us of Gondor, not to you specifically."

__

As it was, Boromir thought guiltily. _But nonetheless I will go_. "I will have this, my father."

"So be it." It was the final resistance Denethor would put forth, and Boromir knew there was more he should say, but…his terror that some irreparable chasm had opened between himself and Faramir was too great.

"With your leave, Father, there is much I must attend to before I can depart."

"Go to your brother, then."

Boromir blinked, and might have said something, but Denethor had already lowered his gaze to the papers before him. Lovely. Now both were displeased with him. "My Lord."

He followed Faramir, making inquiries to passing servants when he lost the trail, and at last caught a glimpse of him as he entered the stables. _No!_ He began to run.

Inside, Faramir was preparing a horse, and turned to him with an expression of fury and pain.

"Faramir, no, you cannot-"

"You convinced me to pretend that the dream had not come to me, when we both know full well I had it six times, and you used that against me to Father-"

"I never meant-"

"-And I trusted you, and you promised never to do that to me-"

"Faramir-"

"-And you think me weak and-"

Boromir stepped forward, gripping his shoulder. "You are not weak, but you are wounded, and you are not riding off before you have the healers' leave."

He flung the arm aside, knocking it hard against the stable wall, but Boromir could not find it in him to be angry. Faramir had too many just complaints. "You are not the Steward _yet_."

"I will not allow you to hurt yourself."

"No, that seems to be your province, is it not?"

"I came here to apologize and if you would-"

"Yes," he sneered, but Boromir heard the choke, "you make your pretty apology, and I forgive you all, and you lose nothing in apologizing, still having everything your way and a clear conscience to boot. How very convenient for you. I see you have been taking your lessons from the Lord Denethor."

Boromir stretched out his hand again, placating, panicking. They had quarreled before…but not like this. "You have every reason to be angry with me, and I will let you be alone if you choose, but I will not allow you to ride before you have sufficiently healed."

Glaring at him, glaring, on the verge of erupting—and Faramir broke off and stormed out past him without a word. Trusting him to go to his room, or the library, more likely, Boromir began to remove the tack slowly to give himself time to think.

__

Poor Faramir. Once he cools down I'll explain…you can explain away the mistake, a voice in his head whispered, _but you've still taken his quest._

The dream was sent to me!

Once.

I'm more fit for the journey.

You want the sword.

Of course I want the sword! But that's not all. Faramir will forgive me, he always has.

You've hurt him badly.

I'll make it up to him.

The voice was silent, if with a skeptical air.

*

For two days, he conducted his necessary business while Faramir avoided him pointedly, even slamming and locking his door on him. He might have been nursing the wound Boromir had dealt him—but there was no need. It struck him afresh every time he saw his brother, or the Steward for that matter, but that much he had grown accustomed to.

__

Accustomed to all the pain from my father, he thought, watching the city gloomily from his window_, and I suppose now I will grow accustomed to pain from Boromir._

Flouting the obvious will of the Valar, endangering Gondor, endangering himself, using my trust against me, being as unfair as Father!

The door opened, and he did not bother turning around.

"Still angry?" a soft voice asked.

Angry…hurt…what difference did it make?

"Should you not have left?"

"That is why I came to speak to you." Boromir was at his side, touching his arm. Faramir stood stiffly, not responding. It was all he could do to keep from lashing out. "I'm prepared to wait until you are ready."

He bared his teeth, still glaring at the city below. "You are bluffing me, trying to force my hand now."

"I do not bluff. Faramir, I cannot know how long I will be gone. Months at the least, and much can happen in a few months. I will not depart with this between us. I will wait."

"Only to have Father more incensed at me than ever he has been."

"Nay, you'll not be brought into this. I shall fabricate some excuse for my delay."

"You need not. You may as well leave now."

He could feel Boromir studying his face, kept his gaze resolutely at the countryside that stretched out into the far distance. Where Boromir soon would be. "You are determined, then, not to forgive me, even to hear my apology?"

"Not as such. But I would not bother waiting. Speak to me when you have returned from your travels." His head came up proudly, he no longer made a pretense of studying the view, though still he did not face Boromir. He was not unforgiving by nature, but neither was he someone who could be used and trampled on at will, then appeased with a few offhand words. He too was the son of the Steward of Gondor. _And, Boromir, Boromir, how could you _do_ this to me?_

Boromir lingered in silence for a while, then turned away, and walked toward the door. Faramir heard it open, but not close, and he felt his brother's eyes on him. Almost he turned, almost…but his heart hardened at the memory of the audience with Denethor.

"Go on, then. Go on your precious quest that I am too weak for. It will not keep."

Quietly the door closed, and Faramir remained where he was, in cold silence, until he saw Boromir riding hard for the North.

__

It is done then. Whether ill done or well done, he is gone. So be it. He was in the wrong.

The corners of his mouth quavered, but he imposed an iron discipline on them and spent a long evening studying military reports.

And an even longer night curled up in bed, trying to fend off unbidden memories of Boromir, warm ones. So many such memories, too many to count. Boromir with an indulgent smile, half-carrying a drowsy brother up to bed from the library. Boromir fighting beside him, taking an axe blow not meant for him. Boromir, teaching him to ride as a child, ever-vigilant lest he fall. And just as Denethor was harsh with him when he would not be with any other, Boromir was patient with him when he noticeably lacked this virtue toward any other.

Boromir, most painful of all, had been the one to stand up to Denethor for him, until they realized that this only made matters worse. And then he had always made a point of reassuring Faramir when their father was being unjust, coming down hard on him for a fault he would gloss over in Boromir, reassuring him that in fact he _was_ being unjust. For Faramir knew full well that without his brother's constant support, he would have doubted himself ere ever doubting the Lord Steward, and come to believe that he must deserve such treatment. Only Boromir had not let him so believe.

__

But that only makes this harder! he cried. _I trusted him_.

__

You did not wish him to leave in great part because you fear it will bring his death. And yet you let him go without a word from you; in fact you drove him away.

He was in the wrong.

__

Of course he was, you're very accomplished at being right. Hold that thought to you, let it warm you for the remainder of your days. It is all you have left yourself.

Faramir gave a great shudder, and pulled the bedcovers over his head—a mistake, as it did nothing more than evoke memories of Boromir comforting the fears of a small child.

He did not sleep that night, and in his anguish and in his fatigue the next morning nicked himself shaving. _Stop it!_ he glowered at his reflection. _It is done. You are master of yourself, you will not go to pieces over this._

After taking a firm grip on himself and deciding that it was too late to send a messenger ahead to Edoras as Boromir had been riding too hard and no one could be spared anyway for such a personal message, he made his way down to the Great Hall to deliver reports to and receive orders from the Steward, but he found to his irritation that his feet were dragging. _You are _not_ weak and you will not give truth to that claim._

He was Faramir, son of Denethor, son of Ecthelion. He knew his duty and he would do it. Calm, resolute, he continued.

"-Soon," he heard a voice as he was about to enter the hall. "Soon."

__

Boromir? _Impossible!_

Not so, however, for the owner of the voice stepped out after a few moments, seemingly unsurprised at the presence of Faramir, who stood frozen, staring at him.

"I thought you gone?" Whatever reprieve he had been granted…

"Nay." Boromir kept his voice low, even as he studied Faramir. "I rode off to attend to some small matter that would give me reason to stay. Well, Brother?"

"I can't hate you." The wave of relief that washed over him stole his breath. "I've tried."

Boromir's smile, though restrained, was warming. "You will see me off, then?"

Faramir returned the smile. "I will."

There was silence between them as they descended to the stables where Boromir's horse stood saddled and ready. Not until they stood at the site of their last confrontation did any words come.

"Faramir, I would have you know that I did not intend to use our pretense that you did not dream against you. Father misread us both."

"I believe you." It was the truth, and furthermore he refused to mar their parting by pointing out that he had been quick enough to take the opportunity. "You lack deviousness, you who ever take the straightest road. I am sorry for thinking such undeserved ill of you." Also the truth.

"We are here so that I may apologize, Faramir, not you. I would also have you know that I have never thought of you as weak, and that I never said so. A man may both love Elvish poetry and make a fine soldier and captain." He took Faramir's chin in his good hand and ran a thumb over it fondly. "You taught me that, little brother, I would never have guessed it."

He felt his heart melt just a bit further. Boromir's charm was all the more effective for being low-key and sincere. _'Tis no wonder I cannot hate the man._

"Until I should return, Gondor is in your care. You will keep an eye on Father for me, and most of all yourself?"

"Of course." Impulsively he stepped into an embrace that turned into a bear hug, afraid that this would be the last.

"I'm afraid it will not be easy on you. I would lighten your burden if I could, you know that."

"I know that," he assured him. "Have no fear." Indeed, this ready affection between them did more in that regard than Boromir could know. Particularly as he was generally not given to such open displays with anyone but his "little brother."

They stood in such brotherly closeness while time passed, how much he did not know. But at last the sons of Gondor pulled apart, called by separate duties.

"How far would you have me accompany you?"

"In fact…I would leave you here. This will not be made any easier by drawing it out, and I must leave, though my heart remain."

Faramir nodded, understanding. They were soldiers. "Fare thee well, then, Brother. Wes ðu hal, broðor min." He saw Boromir's grin as he mounted. "Namárië, Onooro." Faramir continued in every language he was versed in, and even those he did not truly speak but knew the valedictions or blessings.

They were laughing as he drew to a finish, and he thought, _At least I have given him this_. Boromir reached down for his hand, and Faramir raised both to him. "You have but made me miss you all the more. Take care. I mean that."

With hands still clasped they left the stables together and stood for a moment before Boromir nudged the horse into a walk. Drawing on all the determination he possessed, Faramir turned away. There was a war to be won, a country—even a world—to be saved. In it, a loss such as this could be counted a small matter, or perhaps the greatest of all.

__

Return to us. Please return.

In the distance, he heard the crying of the horn of Gondor as the Lord Boromir set off for the north.

__

Finis

1I am torn on the use of "thee" here. In Gondor they distinguished between the familiar and the deferential second person, which should properly be represented as "thou/thee" and "you," respectively. However, Tolkien rightly decided that to overuse "thou" and "thee" would be a mistake in modern English and went with "you" almost all the way through. However, he used "thou/thee" to convey two opposite effects: a more formal address, such as in "The Steward and the King," and a more familiar address, such as when Eowyn says to Aragorn, "Wilt thou go?" Additionally, and perhaps most confusingly, Sam uses "thee" to Rosie, to indicate what would have been the deferential, which was used as a form of endearment in the Shire, where this distinction had passed out of use except in the above case.

Now, Boromir and Faramir would already have addressed each other using the familiar, so their pronouns could not get more familiar, as would seem to be indicated by my having Boromir drop from "you" to "thee." The linguistic purist in me is positively writhing, since this change cannot actually correspond to what it appears to. However, given that Tolkien allowed himself a great deal of leeway here, I have decided that on a literary level, in modern English, this conveys the appropriate emotions, and thus I have taken some artistic license. May Tolkien forgive me.

2 I have two passages in the Lord of the Rings that seem to conflict. In Appendix A, when describing the wars between the Nazgûl and the people of Gondor in Eärnur's day, it reads: "But it is said that when all was lost suddenly the Witch-king himself appeared, black-robed and black-masked upon a black horse. Fear fell upon all who beheld him… Eärnur would have withstood him; but his horse could not endure that onset, and it swerved and bore him far away before he could master it…Glorfindel, looking into the gathering dark, said: 'Do not pursue him [the Witch-king]! He will not return to this land. Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall.' These words many remembered…"

At the Council of Elrond, describing the attack of one of the Nazgûl (the Witch-king?) on Osgiliath, Boromir says: "A power was there that we have not felt before. Some said it could be seen, like a great black horseman, a dark shadow under the moon. Wherever he came, a madness filled our foes, but fear fell upon our boldest, so that horse and man gave way and fled." 

Apparently, the "many who remembered" it, and the people by whom "it is said," are not the men of Gondor. There was a host of Elves present, and so I have decided that it was in their records that this was found, probably in Imladris, (and recorded later in the Red Book), and it was not preserved in the records of Gondor. And yet this was less than a thousand years prior to the War of the Ring, and as Eärnur was the last of the kings, we know the memory of Gondor stretches back at least that far, and that they remember the fall of Minas Ithil.

So I have decided that the records of the Nazgûl in Gondor are sketchy, perhaps preserving a description of a rider in black, but little more. After all, anyone vaguely human can be a rider in black, but it would be an insult to Faramir to think he would not have immediately made the connection had a full description of the effects of the Nazgûl been preserved in Gondor. This is, after all, the same Faramir who figured out the Isildur's Bane thing on far less evidence (see "The Window on the West"). Simply my way of getting around what appears to have been an oversight on Tolkien's part, one of his very few.


End file.
